


Prayer

by SharpestKnife



Series: No Snow [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon shuts his eyes all the time now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer

Jon shuts his eyes all the time now. He thinks that it makes it more intimate. He moves more slowly, with long, gentle thrusts meant to stoke and to satisfy. He knows that Robb doesn't mind.

Underneath him, Jon doesn't feel the quaking he finds when he ruts with harsh strokes. Instead there are shivers of stilted pleasure, eased out firmly through his thrusts. He thinks that it feels more correct. There are two parts to a whole, and it feels incomplete when he comes and Robb doesn't.

His hands, gods, even his hands are gentler now, running whisper light over Robb's skin, not tearing and clawing like they used to. Where once were shrill cries and violent grunts, now there are whimpers and soft trembling moans.

Jon likes to take Robb from behind now. It's better this way for them both. He can't see Robb's eyes glisten with tears, or his mouth quiver with every moan, but Jon knows that it lets Robb enjoy more of him, feel his length come and leave with more fullness. Jon doesn't mind, he wouldn't see all the same, because his eyes are shut all the time now.

And when Jon spilled, he used to howl. He never told Robb how it felt like confessing, to the moon and the stars and the earth. It felt like shouting his heart to things that would listen with wordless approval. A song he would scream, of his love for a brother, that fell on the deaf ears of gods. Now his seed leaves him to the sound of whining, keening and low like a wounded beast.

He falls forward, joins Robb's body with his, heaving, and weary, and moist. As it always does, at the end of their games, clarity begins to rush in. It starts with sound. He can't hear Arya running, or his brothers laughing in the yard. The chill here is different, deeper, more cutting. The smell reeks of ice and impending death, not cakes and bread and burning wood. 

Jon wills his hand not to wander. Still it goes searching with curious fingers. Robb's back is not as strong as he remembers, the hair at his neck is different, and the veil of perfection drops dead to the floor. He opens his eyes. Where he hopes each time to see auburn curls, there is only a tangle of black.

His steward shifts beneath him, to ask if he's alright. Jon sinks to the cot and bites on his lip. He refuses to weep but there are too many tears, and it hurts and it burns to hold them all in. 

The boy turns over and strokes Jon's head. He muffles his cries in the crook of his neck. He tells Jon that some day, all will be well. Jon knows that he lies, but he chokes on the shard that builds in his throat, and he never finds words to protest.

The tears don't stop, at least not for a while. The sobs trace his grief and his mourning, and he wonders if Robb hears him pray. Jon shuts his eyes all the time now. He sees auburn and blue, and melting snow.


End file.
